


once upon a time i was falling in love (but now i'm only falling apart)

by harleygirl2648



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - IT (King) Fusion, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dialogue Heavy, First Love, Fluff and Angst, Hypochondria, M/M, Magical Bond, References to Addiction, Suicidal Thoughts, Temporary Amnesia, because FUCK that IT Chapter 2 ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-21 12:28:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20693525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harleygirl2648/pseuds/harleygirl2648
Summary: LOT AU: 27 years ago, in 1985, a group of friends though they stopped a cosmic evil clown before summer break was over. they promised that if IT came back, they would, too. One by one, they all left Derry, and one by one, they all forgot. Forgot about the evil, the town, each other.John and Gary were best friends, maybe more than that if the time had allowed. They weren't supposed to be best friends, but life is funny like that sometimesSometimes time can be funny, too, and bring people back to how they used to be.





	once upon a time i was falling in love (but now i'm only falling apart)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dametokillfor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dametokillfor/gifts), [GeekyRamblings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeekyRamblings/gifts).

> So IT Chapter 2 owns my LIFE right now. I blame the Constangreen discord for fueling me.

When Gary gets the call from Mick, it’s while he’s in his apartment, watching Deep Space Nine reruns and eating leftover Indian takeout for breakfast. He’s alone. That's not an unusual occurrence, though. He’s got a mouthful of naan when he hears his cell phone ring. It’s not David calling back for a second date, nor is it a number he recognizes. Usually he ignores them, hangs up, but this one is from Maine.

Derry, Maine.**  
**

He grew up there, but never remembered much of it. He always chalked it up to growing up, forgetting things that used to matter like acne and algebra tests and first crushes and-

“Hello?” he said, answering for some reason he would never be able to articulate.

The voice on the other end of the line was gruff as it spoke. “Dweeb.”

Something pulled at the back of Gary’s mind like a migraine. He chased down a pill with his Chardonnay and cleared his throat. _“Excuse_ me?”

“Green. It’s Mick.”

Mick.

It sounded familiar, but he - he didn’t understand why. “Who?”

‘Mick’ didn’t try and explain himself, instead barking out, “It’s been 27 years exactly, dweeb.”

“Could you stop-”

“Green. You promised you’d come back if IT did.”

“What - what is IT?”

There was a sigh. “Jade of the Orient, tomorrow at 7. Be there.”

“Why - no.” Something like a chill crawled up his spine and made him shiver. “To - are you talking about Derry?”

“Yeah. We made an oath, Green. _Gary_. You swore, even as you bitched about bloodborne diseases and shit.”

Gary looked down at his hand, at the scar across his palm. It itched, and scratching it only made it worse. “What - what are you talking about?”

“You have to come back.”

Fear shot up in his veins like a drug. “I can’t.”

“You promised. You have to.”

“I - I won’t. I won’t go back there,” Gary whispered harshly. He didn’t even know what it meant, but it was a primal fear dislodging itself from his brain and breaking to the surface, like a fear of germs or the dark.

“Gary-”

“Don’t call this number,” he snapped, hanging up and tossing the phone at his couch. The call had effectively ruined his day, but he had work to do. He tried to calm himself down with breathing exercises and that stupid app that had a person talking you through meditation. It didn’t work. It never worked.

As he pulled on his suit jacket and stared into the mirror, he sighed again, with quiet resignation. Back to his CPA job, clacking at keys for eight hours a day, and then going home to his empty apartment, to science fiction reruns and old wallpaper and almond milk. He wished he could get a cat, but his landlord didn’t allow pets of any kind. His life was - _fine._

He didn’t stare at the subway tracks and think about falling, or jumping, or anything like that, but maybe stood too close to the edge so that the subway whizzing by almost skinned his nose. Holding onto the ceiling strap as the car rumbled made him feel numb and jittery as he walked the three blocks to his office building, and he had to take another pill in the elevator, washing it down with kombucha that was supposed to be good for his digestive system.

_Gazebo._

That word suddenly burned itself into his memory and he was shaking his head to clear the word out when he ran right into McNeil, getting coffee splashed onto him.

McNeil shoved him back, laughing. “You’re late, Green.”

“Train was late.”

“Always that excuse. What, you got kept up all night with a date?” He laughed harder, nudging Gary as Gary tried to ignore him on the walk to his desk. “Sharon gave us all the details a month ago. Not that were any good ones, of course.”

Gary sat heavily at his desk and popped a fish oil capsule, getting clapped on the back and nearly coughing up fermented tea. “Maybe next month, Green!” McNeil laughed again, walking past him to the employee lounge to his approving, adoring crowd.

**SMACK!**

Gary bashed his head once against the desk before fumbling in his briefcase for his iron supplement and swallowing it dry. He was jittery, so he washed it down with an anxiety med and more shitty tea. He rubbed his temple and switched his computer on, slumping back in his chair as he listened to McNeil shoot the shit with the boss. It wasn’t fair, he’d been with the firm for fifteen years, installed the new programs, and McNeil’s been here five years and already been an Employee of the Month three times and ruined his chances with Chelsea when he let slip that Gary’s last date was a _he._

He punched the side of his monitor, making it wake up faster. Nobody came by his desk. He’d stopped caring by year seven.

Mom had passed away years ago, Dad was in a home and still called four times a week to nag about how the home wasn't clean (it was) the nurses were awful (they were not) and then complained about _why aren’t you the VP yet, Gary? Why do you still live in a one bedroom apartment, Gary? Why aren’t you married yet, Gary?_

He took another sip of kombucha and nearly hurled as the fermentation blobs touched his tongue, then opened his drawer to get some folders and his seaweed snacks. When he opened the snack drawer, he looked at the trinkets he’d started storing there so they wouldn’t accidentally get thrown away by maintenance or knocked off by Employees of the Month. There wasn’t much, just some old movie tickets, some figurines, and his first set of D&D dice from when he was a kid. Red, orange, yellow, blue, purple.

The green one had been missing since - since before he could remember.

The back of his head itched. He scratched it, took out his snacks, and went back to crunching numbers and letting the fibers break between his teeth. He hated seaweed. He hated kombucha. He hated McNeil. He hated this job. He hated his life.

“Good morning!” he beamed into the phone when it rang on his desk, smiling wide so his jaw ached. “How may I direct your call?”

*****

“Phone’s for you,” Des told John, dropping the cordless bar phone into his lap, midway through John’s poker game. John sighed, knocked back his drink, put down the cards, and excused himself from the other guys in the game to step to the side.

He ran a hand through damaged, now-blonde hair, done with real hair bleach (this time.) Not to say he hasn’t considered taking a swig of the Drano under the sink from time to time.

Des knew. John guessed that was why all the chemicals ended up locked in the attic. The real elephant in the room in their relationship. One of many.

He put a cigarette between his lips as he spoke, “John Constantine, petty dabbler of the dark arts. Cheryl, told you, don’t call on Friday-”

“Weasel.”

That word - it burrowed down into the very bone of his skull. John blinked hard, snapping at hte called, “Fuck do you want?”

“Weasel, it’s Mick.”

“Who the fuck is that?”

“Mick, from Derry.”

“Derry, what is that, some shit heap? What, did the old man finally shuffle off the mortal coil? Leave me some shit?”

“Weasel, you made a promise.”

John’s stomach churned. “Fuck - what - what the _fuck_ \- who are you? What are you fucking talking about, asshole? _Who is this?!”_

“Mick. From Derry. It’s been 27 years, Weasel. You promised you would come back.”

Des looked up at the sound of gagging, and caught John covering his mouth with his hand and sprinting out to the fire escape. He ran after him, to catch John hurling his guts out over the railing, splattering on the sidewalk over a dropped cigarette. The phone slipped from John’s hand and fell onto the metal grating, as he kept heaving until there was nothing left to come up. Des couldn’t even speak to him before he was scrambling for the phone again, gasping out, “Fuck you,” and hanging up.

“Johnny, what-”

“Don’t call me that,” fell out of John’s mouth before he could stop it. He gave Des the phone back, running a hand through his ruined hair. “I can’t - just don’t.”

“Who was that?”

“Just - someone I knew when we were - we were kids, don’t worry about it. Are they still going to let me finish the game or did they already-”

“John, I’m serious, why can’t you tell me? Why can’t you EVER tell me?”

“It’s not important,” John snapped, then flashing at his own words, trying to slip past Des and go back inside. “Just - just let me be, Des, I can’t - I can’t right now.”

“John, the more you keep acting like this - like we - like YOU aren't important, the more it’s easier to believe. And that’s not healthy.”

“You’re - I don’t need a therapist,” John lied, finally moving past him and getting back to his poker game, scratching his palm scar.

He won the game. Pure luck, one of his mates muttered. John doubted that. Luck wasn’t something he’d ever really had. Sure, he won enough money in card games and magic acts, and had gotten lucky with a fair amount of men and women.

But real, true, honest-to-goodness good luck? Not something he ever remembered having.

Even with Des, his longest relationship, almost an entire year, wasn’t rife with luck. They had been struggling for the last month. John said Des didn’t have to treat him like a parent, Des told John to open up, for the love of _God._

Neither of them budged on their stance.

Dinner was silent, not warm or light like at the beginning of their relationship. John knew it was his fault. Deep down, he knew it was always his fault. He didn’t let Des in, but - but Des didn’t understand. He didn’t understand that John truly couldn’t remember anything before turning fourteen. Dad sucked, Cheryl was barely a presence, he ran away, that was it.

_It’s not my fault I can’t remember._

Derry, Maine. A place he ran away from. Why? Anyone’s guess, really. He was always running away.

A chill shot up his spine when he was in the bathroom alone and he had to pull hair out of the shower drain. He didn’t know why, but Des noticed his shaking when he got into bed.

“You want to talk?”

John shook his head, pulling the blanket over himself and unwillingly going to sleep. He hadn’t drank enough that night so he wouldn’t dream, so instead, he felt himself lost in a dream. One so real if he put his hand out, he could touch it. Hear it. Smell it. Taste it.

_Lemon cleaning supplies. Worn navy sheets. Something - Foreigner? - playing on the radio. Whispers. Touches that grew more confident. A bright smile._

Then he was nudged awake. He grunted onee, turning over in bed to face Des. Why’d he woken him up - oh. He felt - warm, good. Relaxed. The ultimate high that he has been chasing for two decades, and now he has a little taste. He grinned, sleepy and charming. “Hey, love.” He leaned in, Des leaned back. “Wha - wh’t’s the problem?” he murmured, trying to lean in again. Des held him back at arm’s length.

“Des, st’p, ‘m tired. C’mon, don’tcha wanna-”

“Who’s Gary?”

*****

“FUCK!” Gary swore under his breath, punching the buttons on the printer twenty different times, kicking it once. Still, it wouldn’t give him his copies.

“Fucking piece of shit,” he hissed, storming back to his desk. He had to reroute his budget plans to the other printer. He pulled up his memo program, to write out his list of tasks for his overtime tonight. He rubbed his temple again, sipped his kombucha, and started typing. The only part of his job that he liked, being able to turn his brain off and just type the day away.

_Meeting at 4:30_

_Takeout at 7, use up that coupon before the end of the month_

_Call Dad after work, but before 10 or you’ll get bitched out again._

_Jump out the window_

Wait. No.

Terry was carrying his wastepaper basket to the trash room on the third floor. “Beep beep, Janice, get out of the way.”

_Beep beep, Johnny_

_Funny, your mum says that when I-_

_BEEP BEEP_

A bead of sweat dripped down Gary’s neck as he found he was still typing, his palm scar itching like crazy.

_Lover, not a loser_

_Always a loser_

His chest was getting tighter.

_Dropping your pills, Gary. Do you think they can FIX MEEEE?! HUH?_

Oh god, his arm was hurting. Was he having a fucking heart attack?

_Promise me you won’t forget. Promise me._

Someone was calling his name. He couldn’t pay attention to it.

_Maybe one day I’ll be ready to hear it_

_Maybe one day I’ll be ready to say it_

Was this a stroke?

_I’ll come back. I promise._

Jesus, he was really going to have an asthma attack for the first time in twenty fucking years, wasn’t he?

_See you around, sunshine._

He ripped his hands away from the keyboard and wheezed, gasped, choked on air that wasn’t getting to his lungs, and he scrambled for his laptop bag. His hands shook as he pulled out his damn blue inhaler, buried under his wallet. He grabbed his wallet, too, thinking he needed to call his fucking doctor, call a specialist, or 911, or the fucking undertaker. He used the inhaler, and opened his wallet to get his new specialist’s number.

His finger caught a worn corner of a card that had been in his wallet for - for forever. Even before his driver’s license, or his insurance card. He didn’t know how he ever hid it from Mom and Dad. They barely let him have D&D, no way would they let him have a real tarot deck. He never ended up buying one when he got out of the house.

All he had was one card - the Lovers card.

He pulled it out, felt it between his fingers as he used his inhaler again.

_See you around, sunshine._

“Green,” he heard behind him in a snigger. “Holy shit, man, what was that?”

Gary didn’t even spin around in his chair, rubbing the card between his fingers.

“Sounded like you were dying, you screamed.”

_I’ll come back. I promise._

_I won’t forget. I promise._

“Green?”

Gary smiled as he sprung to his feet, scaring McNeil. The boss was there, too, and Gary told him straight up, “I have to take my vacation days, Jefferson, I need to go.”

“What? When? Why?” his boss said slowly, glazed over, like an old hard candy gone all crystallized. “Huh?”

“I need to leave.”

“When?”

“Now.”

“Now? Like _hell_ you are, Green. You know you need to put in a week’s notice before a vacation. You need to stay and finish your prep for conference next week. Your promotion depends on it.”

Gary paused, before a slow laugh crept out of his mouth. It got louder. “My promotion?”

“Green, get it together.”

“My pROMOTION?! That you’ve promised me for YEARS? That MCNEIL got after THREE years when I’ve been here a nearly a QUARTER of my FUCKING LIFE?!”

Both of the other men looked uncomfortable as Gary gripped the card tighter. Jefferson finally got some life back into his face, straightening up. “Green, what’s the issue?”

McNeil snorted beside him. “Maybe he just needs some stronger Prozac, or a prostitute, right, Green? Remember that time you brought your friend David? With the bad bleach job? Probably not the only ‘job’ that’s bad.”

Bleach job.

Bleach - _bleached blonde._

Gary’s eye twitched as he picked up his kombucha bottle, his voice quaking. “I’m taking the weekend off, boss.”

“Green, you’re staying, or you’re fired.”

Gary laughed, too loud. He clutched the bottle and then threw it at his monitor, as hard has he could. It shattered the screen, shorted out the mainframe, and nearly caused a small fire with how much smoke it produced. He grabbed his dice and everything else out of his trinket drawer, turned to Jefferson, and smiled a perfect customer service smile before telling him, “I quit.”

McNeil reached for his arm, in a panic because Gary’s computer had the main backups to his project, that he would have to take over now. Gary shoved him back. “You can kiss my FUCKING ass, McNeil.”

He shattered the Employee of the Month award on McNeil’s desk as he passed it, and threw all of his pills into the trash.

The second he stepped outside, he walked in the direction of the subway station, and kept walking past it, and the pharmacy, and ignored the phone call from Dad. The rain beat down on him, picking up the further he went. He walked until he got all the way to his apartment, stripping out of his rain-drenched suit and tossing it into the bathroom without even thinking about the laundry hamper. He ordered a plane ticket, threw way too many clothes and medicines into his bag, and ran back outside.

Instead of hailing a taxi, he ended up nearly being hit by one. He got inside. “Airport, now. Please.”

The driver nodded, shifting gears. “Where ya off to?”

Gary pressed his forehead against the cold glass of the car window, letting his eyes close. His fingers slipped into the wallet, touching worn paper and thinking about bad blonde hair and summertime.

“Maine.”

*****

John collapsed onto the couch, kicked out of the bedroom. Not for the first time, but the first time with Des. It hurt, it really fucking _ached_ right down into his bones.

It didn’t matter when he told Des he couldn’t remember anything. He couldn't remember saying a name, anything about his childhood. It was all blank.

_Just fucking let me in, Johnny._

_I can’t._

_Why not?_

_Because - I lose people. I can’t - I just can’t, Des._

_But you let - him in, apparently._

_I don’t remember! I can - I need to do a drawing, clear my head._

_You can’t live your life by a deck of fucking cards, Johnny._

_I said NOT to call me that!_

That response got him the couch. John rubbed a hand down the side of his face, feeling it shake as it dragged across his skin. He grabbed his locked box from the top shelf on the bookshelf, and took out his first ever tarot deck that he bought when he was thirteen. He remembered that, for some reason.

Sitting back on the couch, he shuffled the cards over and over, thinking about what to draw for. Money never worked out right, the future was always too scary to tap into…

Love.

John hadn’t drawn for love probably since he was eighteen. He’d drawn it for other people and make extra cash on the side to get food some nights, but he never saw the point in drawing for it. It would be a sign, he decided whether to stay here in New Orleans or - or fucking go back to Derry, Maine.

A love drawing is one of the simplest means of reading tarot cards. John shuffled the deck one more time before removing three cards at random, lining them up beside each other. The left card he flipped over first, that represented oneself.

The Magician. _(Cute, universe, John thought to himself.)_

And now for the right card, which would represent the lover. Flipped over, it revealed The Sun.

The middle card was turned over last. It represented the future the two would experience soon.

John flipped it over, and stared Death’s pale eyes in the face.

He blinked. That - that couldn’t be right.

A chill went down his spine, so he grabbed his coat off the floor, putting it on before he uncovered all of the cards and realized one was missing.

The Lovers.

He’d been working with an incomplete deck the whole time. He kept the deck stacked against him every time. Sighing, he fell back, staring at his drawing.

The Magician. The Sun. Death.

He was still staring when the sun came up, and Des came out of the bedroom. He barely noticed when Des shook his shoulder. When John finally met his eyes, he was looking into tired ones.

They didn’t speak. John got up from the couch, gathered his cards, and went to the bedroom. He came out, changed but still wearing the coat, with his bag that he had moved in with. Des sipped from his coffee as John approached him.

“I’m sorry,” John whispered. He couldn’t speak any louder.

“So am I. But how long are you going to do this, John? How many bridges do you need to burn before there’s nowhere else to go?”

John didn’t have an answer. Des didn’t expect one, but offered a simple, “good luck,” before turning away.

“Thank you. I’m sorry. Thank you,” John choked out before he went out through the front door. He didn't turn back as he left, and he knew Des didn't turn around to see him go.

He bought a ticket at the airport, _so_ many tiny bottles of liquor at the gate, and curled up across six seats to wait five hours for the flight.

Gingerly, he slipped his hand into the inside pocket of his coat, and his fingers wrapped around a green 20-sided die.

Words popped into his head.

_It’s for luck._

For the first time that day, John smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> This is what's going to keep me sane during my college thesis. I hope you all enjoy!
> 
> Please, please leave all the comments and kudos you like! I love responding to them!
> 
> Come visit me and find ways to send me love and support on [Tumblr](http://somebodyhelpthenotdeadfreds.tumblr.com)!


End file.
